


Kiss Me Better

by LenahCC



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Post-Star Trek Beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:50:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8139677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LenahCC/pseuds/LenahCC
Summary: They have resumed cohabitation and have picked up on their old routines: cooking meals at home, segregating chores, and reporting to each other about current life events. But while they have re-established their relationship, there was that hounding intuition that something was amiss.





	

Given Jim’s penchant for terrible, life-threatening ideas, it was only logical for Spock to respond with the skeptical raising of his left brow when the captain slapped him on the shoulder just as they were leaving the Yorktown Shipyard and said: “Spock, listen, I’ve thought of a _wonderful_ idea.” 

With his hands clasped behind his back, the Vulcan slowed his descent on the stairs. Ahead of him, Jim Kirk was grinning from ear to ear with characteristic smugness.

“I believe the normal human response would be to say ‘I have a bad _feeling_ about this’.”

“I’m throwing Bones a birthday party,” the captain announced in complete ignorance of his first officer’s feedback. “It’ll be _epic_ —the kind of night we’d be talking about for years to come.”

“For a night to be so powerfully memorable in your case suggests to me that you intend it to be a night of absolute debauchery.”

“You got that right,” Jim responded in a voice charged with pride. “Anyway, I will be booking us a table at Valkyrie. VIP. Tonight.”

At this, Spock halted, forcing the captain to retract a few steps back. Spontaneity was not quite his forte, and his silence accounted for the necessary mental re-working of his evening schedule, in the 25% probability that he’d choose to go.

“While your usage of the future tense imply a plan only very recently concocted, Jim, might I remind you that Doctor McCoy’s birthday is not until _next year_ precisely _two hundred and thirty-three days_ from now. Your party is therefore pointless at this period.”

“ _Fine._ Actually, you know what—we don’t even _need_ an occasion to celebrate the blessing that is our lives. I mean, after all that we’ve been through, we need to drink to the fact that we’re still in one piece.”                 

Spock pondered on this new line of reasoning and conceded that the captain did have a point. Still, there were other ways he prefers to celebrate that do not involve humans in their most illogical state of inebriation.

“I’ll see you there, alright? I’ll gather the rest of the crew. All you have to do is to show up and make sure Uhura comes too.” Jim stopped abruptly, pausing as if to consider something, then whirled around. “Hold on a sec, you two _are_ back together, right? I mean, I kind of just assumed since you guys were totally eye flirting with other during my party. Everything back to normal?”

Spock blinked.

“Nyota and I are well.”

 _Technically_ , they are well.

They have resumed cohabitation and have picked up on their old routines: cooking meals at home, segregating chores, and reporting to each other about current life events. But while they have re-established their relationship, there was that hounding intuition that something was amiss. That they are, for reasons left unsaid, still not on par with their previous ease.

“ _Right_ ,” Jim said in a tone that insinuates disbelief. “ _Anyway_ , 21:00. Valkyrie. Just drop my name.” And with this, he began walking towards the nearest transporter stop.

“I—”

Jim turned back and, in a sharper tone, hollered: “Do I have to make this an order, Mr. Spock?”

“That is a sore abuse of authority that violates not less than 20 star fleet regulations . . . but nonetheless unnecessary, _Captain_ ,” Spock clipped. 

“Great. Walk on the wild side, Spock. I’ll see you _and_ Uhura tonight.” Jim pointed a finger at him partnered with raised brows and a grin—a combination of gestures that indicated the placement of expectation and assignment of responsibility. Spock responded with a curt nod and watched as the captain jogged away to catch his ride.

* * *

 

A dull and pre-occupied “hey” greeted him as he removed his shoes by the entrance of the apartment. On the couch, Nyota was sitting cross-legged with several PADDs surrounding her and one cradled in her hands. 

She did not spare him a glance and ignored him completely as he walked to the room.

Without the standard “small talk” inquiry to his day or the usual briefing of what she was currently pre-occupied with, he felt it yet again—an unnamed tension in the air, the presence of a small wrinkle in their relationship he could not seem to iron over, much less account for.

At the very least, he assumed she would inquire about the developments on the Enterprise’s upgrade installations, which he is spearheading.

“Would you want a cup of tea?” he politely inquired, mainly to initiate conversation.

“No thanks.”

The conversation fizzled prematurely and Spock wordlessly retreated to the kitchen.

Under normal circumstance, it was an adequate response: polite and straight to the point. Yet for Nyota, he found it grossly inadequate.

As difficult as it was for him to logically expound their circumstance, he _felt_ that she has ironically been more Vulcan in her silence and in the absence of her frivolities such as asking him for his opinion on which pair of earrings to wear and asking about his day regardless when she already knew his schedule and relaying to him generally unnecessary information such as a friend of hers named Sarah who just found out her boyfriend was a “cheating asshole”.

She has been acting in a peculiar manner for the past month that the typical female hormonal imbalance cannot account for. He also did not detect any signs of physically illness and had ruled out career difficulties as the cause.

In a state of complete ease, her thoughts were liberally shared and her passion usually unrestrained, radiating around her like a satisfying hum of positive energy. It could be found in the crinkle by the corner of her eyes, in the breadth and lines of her smile, in the luster in her eyes and the ridiculous pleasure in her laugh—all of which have been unsettlingly dampened of late

He felt the absence of such qualities usually translated as her brand of affection keenly.

What made the situation more confusing was the fact that she was _not_ ignoring him.

In the aftermath of his close death encounter in Nibiru, her anger at his perceived callousness was easily identified as she portrayed the symptoms of her displeasure well: hostile glares, tight frowns, sarcastic and caustic remarks. However, her recent behavior portrayed none of that.

He perceived her not to be hostile but aloof. Her frown was not angry; rather, she was simply not smiling. Her words were not scornful but devoid of her usual spirit and uncharacteristically concise.

“Nyota, I ought to inform you that the captain is short of commanding our presence tonight at a club called Valkyrie for no reason other than to celebrate our state of living,” he reported, reemerging from the kitchen with a cup of tea in hand.

The statement pierced through her silent mood.

The woman lowered her PADD with an expression of disbelief. “ _Wow,_ that’s like the hottest club in town right now. Getting to the guest list is like cracking a firewall _in Klingon_! How did he even—you know what, forget it. I should know by now that Jim has his ways . . .”

Frankly, it was the most passionate statement he had heard from her lately. He watched her eyes turn from pensive to bright, as if an idea occurred to her. But as much as her response pleased him, the fact remained that their personal interests were conflicting.

“I sense that you desire to cooperate with Jim’s idea of a predictably irresponsible form of fun.”

Her silence. _Disappointment?_

“ . . . You _don’t_ want to go?”

“I am not too keen to socialize in such a setting.”

“Oh.”

“Of course, I will not hinder you from attending.”

She bit her lip and her brows furrowed at the center. _Displeasure or Concentration?_

“You know, it’s been a while since we did something . . . _different_.”

The tone in which she said _different_ suggested . . . _discontentment?_

“Your statement is confusing as we naturally perform even the most routine task differently, however unperceptively.”

Nyota responded with a pointed look. “I meant something a bit more exciting.”

Spock pursed his lips at her answer and straightened his posture to rid himself of the growing frustration over his inability to decipher her mood. 

“I am . . . unsure whether you intend to indirectly inform that you find our routines to be dull.”

The softening of her eyes and slacking of her mouth diffused a bit of the tension.

“It’s not _that_ , Spock,” Nyota continued, finally setting her PADD aside. She walked over to him and halted approximately a foot away. “All I’m saying is, I haven’t been to a club in ages and we haven’t been out somewhere that’s _not_ the groceries or a restaurant so engaging in irresponsible _fun_ sounds really tempting.”

She did not touch him—a fact that he mentally filed under the peculiar given her natural inclination for physical touch.

In silence, his gaze fell from her face to the deep sky blue amulet suspended on her sternum by a gold chain. A memory swarmed his mind—how not too long ago she had attempted to return the token to him during their brief separation. After she claimed to need a “break”.

Based on available statistics, the success of a long-term relationship between humans and Vulcans was less than 5%. As he was only half-Vulcan, the number can be raised to 8.5%.

Spock thought it fair to admit that while he personally assessed their personalities to be generally compatible and their co-habitation successful, it was not far fetched to consider that perhaps Nyota was finding their lives to be bland or inadequate in its domesticity and therefore unsatisfactory. Or perhaps he was unintentionally being emotionally unavailable once more and her tolerance had run out.

It was true that Nyota has been greatly patient with him—with _them_ —given the numerous challenges they’ve encountered, most of which are rooted in circumstance: their biological differences, the loss of Vulcan and the danger implied in the nature of their assignment aboard the Enterprise. Indeed, their relationship has been challenged since its inception with their constant flirtation with fraternization rules.

Each individual’s patience differed in generosity and scope, and while Nyota had certainly portrayed an abundance of this quality, the fact remained that patience is an exhaustible virtue. 

“Just for tonight, _okay_?”

He looked into her eyes and felt the sinking sensation of dismay when she shifted her gaze to the ground.

The mere notion of Jim’s party already promised an uncomfortable and unproductive evening that did not appeal to him in the slightest. Still, there was that unexplained tiredness to her voice that told him it would be unwise to refuse her.

“Then I shall . . . make the necessary preparations,” he conceded.

At 20:17, the lieutenant emerged from their room in her chosen ensemble with his mother’s necklace still fastened around her neck.

“Ready to go?” she asked as she donned on a pair of diamond stud earrings in front of the mirror by the door.

She stood with her back to him and Spock idly traced the shapely silhouette of Nyota’s posterior as well as the generous display of skin. The classic burgundy dress the lieutenant opted for the night bared her back from the waist up and clung to her person from her arms to her hips and thighs. The hem of the dress rested mid thigh and he trailed the length of toned legs continuing where the fabric ended.

Spock swallowed and casually shifted his gaze when he became aware of the warm sensation of desire trickling into his veins.

It has been exactly 27 days since they were physically intimate with each other, with their last lovemaking being mediocre in its lack of . . . passion? Connection? The precise answer evaded his analysis. Consequently, the gap before the next occurrence of intimacy seemed only likely to climb given how her recent moods.

“Spock?”

Smothering the demands of his own biology with masterful discipline, Spock tipped his chin in a subtle nod.

“Affirmative. I am prepared to depart.”

They arrived at the designated venue three minutes before 21:00, and even from outside the club premises, music could be heard, disturbing the quiet of the evening.

As they walked from the nearest transporter stop, several young women wearing bottoms so scant it could pass off as undergarments tottered past them in footwear that made Nyota’s heel look prudish. Spock also noted with baffled fascination that a line of humans and multiple other species ran along the expanse of street and disappeared behind the corner of the block.

Indeed, the appeal of the venue was _fascinating_.

The entrance of the club was formidable, guarded by a female seated behind a narrow booth, flanked by two males of sizable muscle proportions. Unfazed, Nyota strode forward and said: “Under Jim Kirk. Names are Nyota Uhura and Spock.”

The woman spared them a glance, flicked through the data pad then nodded. “Right hand please.” She stamped the underside of their right wrists, the imprint invisible to the naked eye without the aide of UV light.

Immediately behind the door, a female Trill greeted and escorted them to a spacious lounge area—supposedly one of the best in the club. They weren’t the first guests to arrive.

Nyota extended her customary welcome kiss to Hikaru Sulu and his husband and executed the same courtesy to Pavel Chekov who, at twenty-two, has been looking at the interiors of the club with glowing eyes.

A bottle of scotch was already opened on the low glass table and distributed among 3 short glasses.

“Looking good, Uhura,” Sulu complimented with a dimple forming on his left cheek. And looking over at him, Spock detected the man’s hesitation. “Uh, you too, Spock.”

Spock had opted for a gray tunic that fastened at the base of his throat and on the spot just above his wrists with a deep blue Vulcan pattern embroidered on the collar tips, cuffs, and hem of the tunic. He wore the Vulcan equivalent of the terran dress code: _semi-formal_.

“Evenin’ lads,” Scotty drawled from behind, drawing near to the group.

His observation of male attire concluded that males within the club—approximately 90% of which were humans—typically wore different variations of the classic button down, long sleeved shirts with coats being an optional addition. Spock further observed that leaving the top two buttons open was preferred to exude a more casual appearance.

He touched Nyota’s elbow to gain her insight. “Am I to understand that my attire is considered unusual in this context? I presumed such an exclusive venue would warrant a semi-formal dress code.”

The lieutenant tilted her head to the side in thought. “I won’t say unusual, but you do kind of look like a priest.” Seeing Spock’s subtle frown, she leaned and whispered, “Don’t worry, you look good.”

There it was, that humored glint in her dark eyes, no matter how slight, that warmed him. Spock returned her remark with a small smile only her trained eye could see—a brief moment of normality.

“Alright guys, Jim messaged that they’re already at the door. This night is about to get exciting,” Sulu announced, taking initiative to pop open a glass of champagne and filling the surrounding flute glasses. The drinks were then distributed to each member, just as the familiar figure of their smiling captain with his arm draped over a skeptical medic’s shoulder appeared.

At the sight of the gathered party, Leonard McCoy’s scowl only deepened. “Damn it, Jim, you didn’t tell me you were inviting the whole damn Enterprise.”

“Quit sulking, Bones,” Jim commanded in easy humor, handing him a glass of champagne. “Tonight we are celebrating the wonder that is our lives! You are going to quit hanging out at that sad old bar—” Turning to the rest of the crew, Jim raised his hand in a rallying cry “—and we’re all going to have some _real_ fun. Cheers, everyone!”

The crew, including a circumspect Spock, raised their glasses in response. “Cheers!”

“Just great,” Leonard grumbled under his breath before emptying his own glass.

* * *

 

Spock had, in his time as a cadet, as first officer under Captain Pike as well as a colleague to his fellow professors, ventured into establishments that served intoxicating fluids for the sake of maintaining necessary social interaction. 

Bars, lounges, dens, clubs . . . different names yet the concept was the same: dim lighting, loud sounds that passed-off as music and the distracting chatter of inter-specie camaraderie formed when social reservations were low and physical contact were _much_ less restricted.

He did not dislike it. Rather, he simply did not comprehend the primitiveness that arose from such a place and the human need for such an environment. The letting go of inhibitions and descent into depravity conflicted with his Vulcan values.

Standing alone with his drink, he contented himself to watch the rest of the party in their merriment. Jim stood leaning against the back of the couch, beside a gruff McCoy, charming two females. At the bar, Scotty was conversing with a male acquaintance. On the couch, Sulu alongside his husband, Chekov and Nyota were engrossed in a game that made the process of inebriation thoroughly more entertaining.

The sound of her laughter echoed in his ears, a stark reminder of their differences. Unlike him, she was comfortable in this kind of crowd. She “fitted in”.

He watched as Nyota raised both hands in the air in mock surrender and, having lost the round, took her shot in a single gulp. The heat the liquid left in her throat caused her to grimace slightly with distaste; nevertheless, the grin didn’t leave her lips. 

When was the last time she grinned _at_ _him_? Spock frowned when a precise number circumvents his calculations.

“Spock!” 

The Vulcan looked up to find Jim walking over, carrying two small glasses in his hand.

“Take a shot with me,” the captain appealed, thrusting a glass toward him.

Spock skeptically scrutinized the amber liquid contained within the glass. “I have no fondness for alcoholic beverages, particularly in a concentrated state.”

Jim’s face scrunched up in good humor and made dismissive sound with his throat. “ _Come on_ , we’re toasting to our friendship!”

“Your attempts to elicit some form of sentiment in me—most probably _guilt_ —to accept your offer by utilizing our _friendship_ as a trump card is unethical.”

When the captain remained dissuaded by his moral sermon, Spock knew that yielding would be his only choice for a peaceful evening. He took the small glass from the man’s outstretched hand and noted the victorious expression crossing Jim’s face.

“To the best captain-first officer tandem in Federation history,” Jim muttered with a smirk, raising his glass to a toast.

Instead of calling out the arrogant presumption, the Vulcan lifted his glass in good sport and swallowed the contents of the glass.

His face remained impassive as he internally shuddered at the bitter taste it left in his mouth. It was curious how most species across galaxies share the same magnetism towards the indulgence of such vile beverages.

When Jim finally moved to the bar to persuade Scotty to imbibe more spirits, Spock’s eyes instinctively returned to Nyota. He located her still on the couch along with the rest of the crew, but rather than having her focus on her present company, he found her gaze on _him_.

Their eyes locked and, in the brief seconds of connection, he discerned the clouded pensiveness in her expression. Her form visibly startled and flushed when he caught her staring, and she quickly reverted her focus back to the table conversation.

Her reaction stuck him skittish and even shy—two traits that were generally not to be associated with Nyota.

After her third glass—a female favorite Cardassian Sunrise—at 22:46, the Vulcan registered a change to her behavior, suspected to be in relation with her consumption of alcohol. 

He distinguished that the more liquor the lieutenant imbibed the more she reverted to usual conduct: playful grins, dancing eyes, loud laughs, relaxed shoulders and natural movements. Furthermore, Nyota Uhura, one of the most promising human linguists in the whole Federation, exhibited a _marginal_ increase in her usage of the body language when more than mildly inebriated.

He first noticed the change when she approached him at the start of the hour. He had been sitting on the couch in solitude acclimating himself to the increased loquacious loudness within the club when she sidled up to him and claimed his hand in her own.

Countering his ineptitude in conversing with strangers, she drew him into conversations with different groups, such as some of her newly forged acquaintances from the ladies’ bathroom and with Chekov and his new young female friends. Almost all throughout such interactions, she kept an arm hooked around his waist and leaned against him in territorial affection as she talked.

From her touch, relief washed over him.

There was the possibility that he has been simply _over thinking_ matters, his intuition misguided. Perhaps his interpretation of the lieutenant’s lapses of silence and seeming coolness was rooted in a problem that had nothing to do with him. Such error in his inductive reasoning was certainly plausible.

Yet the intuition that whispered otherwise refused to depart him, and the more he studied the lieutenant, the more he wondered.

He could not deny that her sudden propensity for touch given her recent restraint— while _not_ unwelcome—was most perplexing and contradictory to her recent mood and it only worsened his confusion.

She was a woman who often favored covert flirtatious looks, a quick peck on the lips and the subdued holding of hands to the more blatant seduction of rubbing her hands over the sides of his body. Her slathering of physically affection on him in public was unlike her.

Of course, it was only fair to acknowledge that perhaps he found it unusual because they had never interacted in such a setting as a couple before that evening, and the reckless atmosphere within the club seemed to promote such lascivious activities. 

She physically _wanted_ him.

Nyota informed him as much when, on one instance, she stroked her fingers against his palm with deliberate slowness, shocking him with her desire. Her gestures only resulted in planting conflict within him, as he could not conclude whether her actions were rooted in sincere affection or were only shallowly reflective of her worsening inebriation.

Regardless of the cause of her physical advances, his more immediate concern was how it consequently became more difficult to suppress his body’s reaction to her caresses. A ten-minute meditation would normally be adequate to regain full command over his baser urges, but as his current environment was too . . . _stimulating_ , meditation was close to futile. 

As the evening progressed, Spock also felt a growing concern over the wisdom of _another_ Cardassian Sunrise.

The more intoxicated she became the more her appetite for social interaction grew, and whenever she strayed to widen her circle of acquaintances, he calculated the odds that some male would attempt to lure her into conversation at a high 73%.

 _The attention she receives is logical_ , he thought, as she looked especially desirable with her hair down and her eyes accentuated with the smoky effect of applied cosmetics. However, there was that 5% probability wherein the males she would come into contact with would attempt a more physical form of communication. Her rejection of unwanted advances, while consistent, did not fully alleviate his urge to break the males’ carpals. 

* * *

 

By midnight, the population within the establishment doubled and proximity became the unspoken directive. More than once, Spock had to avert his eyes away from the couch where Sulu was competing in a heated game of tongue hockey with his husband. 

The significant decrease in one’s private space brought further discomfort to him. He found his shoulders brushing against another’s and several intoxicated individuals attempting to use his person to gain their balance occurring with undesirable frequency.

“Sparkling lemonade?” the bartender called.

The Vulcan nodded and took the tall glass from the counter after a word of thanks. He left their table with the polite excuse of procuring a beverage when in truth his main intention was to buy himself a brief respite from the incessant chatter of his friends and strangers.  
  
By the bar, it was quieter and the press and pull of people significantly less.

_“Hey you.”_

Spock cocked his head, uncertain how to respond to such a strange form of address. Briefly he wondered why she followed him.

Her mood seemed to have shifted yet again, the exuberance that had accompanied her throughout most of the evening now appearing to be tempered with solemnity.

“Are you okay?” She asked first. He felt her fingers tentatively pressing against his elbow and a bit of her warmth seeped through the fabric of his tunic.

“I am well.”

“I’m just wondering if you’re tired. We’re usually in bed by now.”

“As you well know Vulcan endurance is far higher than the human’s. It would be more fitting for me to inquire your state after six glasses of various alcoholic concoctions.”

Was it the venue’s poor lighting that was causing her smile to look so frail? 

“I’m _fine_.” Her slightly impaired sense of balance was a cause of doubt. Spock also noted the slump on her shoulders and the exhaustion in her eyes.

“I just . . . feel a bit bad that I practically bullied you into coming. I know this kind of setting is uncomfortable for you.”

“Your guilt is illogical, Nyota, as my decision was deliberately made.”

She nodded to acknowledge his answer, but it felt as though he was losing her, that she was retreating into a whole world of thoughts he was not invited to share in.

They stood side by side in a silence that was neither comfortable nor reflective of a six-year relationship. She was unconsciously toying with the Vokaya necklace, and Spock, sipping on his drink, brooded if this was the prelude to an end.

* * *

 

He was unsure precisely how the thought occurred to him—to procure the answer to her behavior without the necessity of inquiry.

They were lounging on the couch with Jim, McCoy, and the Sulus—the captain otherwise dominating the conversation and steering it through time to one of their more memorable death-defying exploration mission.

Nyota was resting her hand on his thigh as she humored Jim with her attention and, on a whim, made use of his leg as a writing pad to draw undecipherable patterns on. The strokes of her fingertip reduced his attentiveness to the conversation by 26%, and so he reached out to still her hand.

It was then that the opportunity presented itself, the proverbial fruit ripe for picking.

On his end, it required the basest effort to gently impress his mind against hers once his fingers made contact with her skin. He did so as subtly as he could, hoping that in her state of inebriation she would not notice the intrusion.

He made out vague emotions of desire and pleasure interlaced with frustration and a lurking feeling of unnamed sorrow; yet, the root of such emotions remained hidden. As if it were cloaked with a mindfulness that barred such thoughts and feelings from him and claimed it as hers alone.

In the earlier stages of their relationship, he distinctly remembered instructing her how to guard her mind. His intention had been to prepare her should she, in the line of duty, come across hostile touch-telepath species that could use her mind against her.

Apart from him, there was no other touch-telepath within the venue as far as he had observed that would warrant her to shield her mind. The conviction was clear as it was cutting.

Her mind, inaccessible without further force, was guarded specifically against _him_.

Nyota jerked her head toward him, widened eyes arresting him in his shame, and before she pulled her hand away, he felt the sting of her disappointment followed by a louder drum of surprised disbelief and the subsequent throb of anger.

“I have to go to the ladies’ room,” she muttered under breath as she hastily extricated herself from his side and from the rest of the company.

Before he could mobilize his limbs to follow her, Jim seized the space the lieutenant vacated without invitation, effectively blocking his path, and pushed towards the Vulcan another glass of amber liquid.

“You know what, I’ve always wondered about something,” the captain began, eyes narrowing.

It was only with sheer discipline that Spock forced his eyes away from Nyota and toward his friend who was most likely completely oblivious to what he had just interrupted.

If he were to quantify the captain’s level of inebriation on a rate of 1 to 10, with 10 being characterized with the loss of motor and speech control and the certainty of vomiting, Spock gauged the captain to be at a 7.

“Vulcans feel more, right? More than humans?”

“Biologically, yes,” was his mechanical response.

“Right. Right—so if you feel more, how does that work out for you when you’re . . . you know . . . _horny_.”

 _A 7.5_ , the Vulcan amended.

“Come on, you know what I’m talking about,” Jim persisted. “I’ve been watching you two lovebirds and Uhura’s been practically feeling you all over. Don’t tell me _that_ doesn’t turn you on.”

The man’s statement struck him as ironic now that his lapse in moral judgment had potentially sabotaged his and Nyota’s relationship.

“I will not even dignify that statement with a response. Rather, allow me to offer you a glass of water, Jim.”

Spock neither heard nor cared to hear the subsequent words that came out of the captain’s mouth. He was consumed by the hurricane of emotions Nyota left in her wake: regret, shame, guilt and frustration slowly coming to a simmer as he identified symptoms of _cowardice_ overriding his logic.

He should have followed her and humbly offered his apologies; yet . . . he did not.

Precisely twenty minutes and fourteen seconds later, Spock, painfully aware that Nyota has not returned to his side, knew he had to confront the implications of her prolonged absence.

* * *

 

At 01:18, the unstable influence of alcohol, the Vulcan suspected, was already in full effect. He had located Nyota on the dance floor four minutes ago along with two females he was not acquainted with. Her decision, while it could be due to her desire to dance, seemed to him an effective evasion maneuver.

Somewhere between the ladies’ bathroom and the dance floor, Nyota must have procured another drink from the bar as he noted the half consumed glass of alcohol in her hand.

In the dimness of the club, she stood a few meters away, her hips gyrating along to the rhythm of artificially construed music blaring throughout the establishment. Her movements, from his vantage point on the couch, were slow and sensual and in perfect camouflage with the crowd of bodies grinding against bodies on the dance floor.

The pleasure he derived from her beauty barely comforted him, however.

Spock took a sip of the liquor Jim had poured for him, thinking perhaps the bitter burning sensation could wash away the grips of regret and his growing ire over the night’s events.

Though the extent of the damage he had inflicted was still unknown, the severity of what he had done was fact. To deliberately pry into the mind of a non-telepath without the other’s consent was a grave offense. And that he had done it within the bounds of a romantic relationship implied a clear violation of trust.

When Nyota slinked further behind the mass of bodies, his courage to pursue her and confess to his offense ultimately failed him.

Spock sat with his back rigid and shoulders defensively squared.

The terrible music pounded uncomfortably in his head. The flickering flashes of lights strained his eyes. Furthermore, he found the stuffiness of the air potent with cigarette smoke and the collective pungent scent of perfume to be disturbingly toxic; the gross lack of personal space, immensely irritating.

The sinking of the couch to his right alerted him to company.

“So Sulu’s still trying to break the world’s record for the longest make session by the bar.” McCoy offered the information without cheer. “Chekov’s out somewhere trying his luck— _and succeeding the last time I saw him_ —to land a threesome. Heck, even Scotty’s out of the dance floor charmin’ that bombshell from a planet whose name I don’t even know. I have a feeling this whole celebration is to get everyone piss drunk and preferably laid.”

“I concur with your speculation,” the Vulcan responded, tight lipped.

McCoy narrowed his eyes at the compliment. “I suspect I’m more drunk than I thought.”

“I observe that you are not exercising the typical human male behavior of securing a lover for the evening.”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave it to you to make _one-night-stands_ sound honorable. I’m more of an old soul myself.”

They sat down in silence that was passably amicable while Spock unconsciously scanned the crowd for Nyota—an act that did not escape the doctor’s scrutiny.

“So.” McCoy cleared his throat. “How are thing’s goin’ on between you and Uhura?” 

“Borrowing one of the most frequently utilized term from the Federation Standard Dictionary, our relationship is _fine_ ,” Spock answered with a hint of curtness.

“For goodness sake, fine is the universal translation of _not_ fine. _How are you? Oh, we’re fine. I’m filing for a divorce next week, but we’re fine_. Look Spock, are you seriously going to throw this _we’re fine_ mumbo jumbo at me are you going to cut the crap and tell me what’s wrong.” 

The doctor’s ranting caught his attention, and Spock fell into a contemplative, almost desolate silence.

“I . . . do not know,” The Vulcan confessed softly, looking down on the drink in his hands. “I sense Lieutenant Uhura has been . . . distant of late.”

McCoy snorted. “Are you sleeping on the couch?”

It fascinated him how humans took sleeping arrangements to be a gauge of a relationship’s health.

“Negative.”

“Did you two fight since getting back together?”

Excluding their current predicament, he did not detect any form of serious altercation between them since their reunion. “Not that I am aware of.”

“So says most of the men who have to sleep on the couch. Well, she’s still wearing your tracking device. That ought to be good.”

Spock turned his gaze back to Nyota and caught the bright blue of his mother’s necklace on her chest. As sentimental as it seemed to take comfort in a piece of jewelry, he felt more at ease to see that it had neither been hidden nor removed.

“You usually know it’s serious when they take off your jewelry: wedding rings, radioactive Vulcan rocks—it’s all the same,” McCoy muttered darkly.

When he didn’t comment, the doctor took a deep breath. “Look, Spock. God knows why, but Uhura’s obviously over her head in love with you and you’re still completely whipped if the fact that you both have been eyeballing each other like teenagers for the past two hours is an indicator.” McCoy scowled. “ _Most likely_ , something’s bothering her. And it’s not exactly hard science, but why don’t you just _ask_ her about it?”

“I am unsure whether such an action would be wise. By the mere fact that she is withdrawing from me implies that she is displeased and emotional, and I admit I am not confident enough in my capabilities to tread upon such a _volatile_ state.”

What he left unsaid was the underlying fear. Fear that he might say something wrong or exacerbate her unhappiness. Fear that confrontation might push her to the edge and prompt her to dissolve their relationship once more.

The agony he had experienced when she confessed to him her desire to part ways only months ago was something instinct would have him avoid. Yet the irony of it all was that it was fear that resulted in the very predicament he feared.

“Like walking on top of an active volcano.”

“An apt metaphor,” Spock concurred.

“Well, I’ll sum it up for you. When a woman starts behaving as if she wants you to stay away, trust me, you _do not_ stay away.”

“Such a contradiction is illogical.”

“Yeah, tell that to the opposite sex,” McCoy said under his breath before taking a drink. “You two are gonna be _fine_. As residing CMO, I prescribe that you two set aside time to talk things through and kiss and make up or something.”

Spock frowned. “What use is the act of _osculation_ in the context of our dilemma, Leonard? If anything, it is a grossly inadequate solution.”

The doctor sucked in a deep breath, brows lifting as if to challenge the Vulcan’s statement. “Well, I’ll leave it to you to figure that out.” And after a pause, added in a sour tone: “And for the love of god, Spock, don’t ever use the word _osculate_ again.”

Spock was contemplating on the doctor’s advice when McCoy startled beside him. “Good lord, is that Jim talking to that female _Phetanoid_?”

Spock shifted his gaze to follow the direction of the doctor’s worried glare to the bar where their captain appeared to be charming a female with silver scales throughout her body.

“Doesn’t that _hare brain_ know that Phetanoids are _extremely_ territorial and you can’t just chat up a female without the consent of her mate—speak of the devil. _Damn it, Jim!_ —” Leonard McCoy shot to his feet and all but ran to the bar to save their drunken captain from another facial contusion.

Alone once more, Spock took a deep breath of air and allowed himself a few seconds to gather his bearing. A weak form of meditation was better than none.

As the doctor said, the most logical option would be to openly discuss his concerns with Nyota and to address his faults, especially since there was hardly much to lose at that point.

He raked the dance floor for the lieutenant and was distressed to learn she had disappeared within the crowd, making it imperative to enter the swarm of bodies should he desire to reconcile as swiftly as possible.

An approximate 12 individuals made inappropriate body contact with him by the time he found her dancing close to the center of the floor. From a distance, he became aware of a human male standing too close behind her with his hand hovering over her waist, his pelvis far too near the woman’s backside.

Nyota, he concluded, was either unaware or unbothered by the proximity, as she made no motion to fend off the attention.

A primitive form of anger simmered in his blood.

When he finally reached the desired location, the stranger, sensing his presence, gave him an undisguised “one down”, the attempt to evaluate the weight of threat a rival possessed. Spock stood rigid and returned the man’s stare with an unflinching sternness normally reserved for communicating threats to enemies.

The man’s resolve eventually chipped and he took a step back, angling his body away from Nyota in surrender. The hand, Spock made sure, was retrieved before it even landed on her hip.

Spock’s fingers skimmed her elbow just as more passing individuals squeezed past his side. The press of foreign skin against his person bristled his already thinning tolerance. Clearly, the faster he and Nyota left the crowded space, the better.

He met the lieutenant’s hooded gaze.

“Nyota, I understand that this is not the ideal time, but it strikes me necessary for us to converse in private. Are you amenable to leave?

“In a while.” Her dismissive response, he thought, was appallingly unlike her.

When she raised the hand that held more liquor to her lips, he stopped her. “Nyota, you have had far too many—”

**“ _Can you just stop?_ ”**

The seething anger in her voice and the force in which she yanked her hand from his grip caught him of guard. As did the sudden contact of cold liquid upon his warm skin as the content of her glass soaked the front of his garb. 

The immediate circumference of people surrounding them ceased in their dance to stare, particularly at him. He sensed their disapproval.

It was a situation he was not entirely unfamiliar with, drawing memories from the more emotionally turbulent years of his childhood when he had to tolerate scathing remarks coated with a reason more discriminatory than logical. And just as he felt as a child, the tips of his ears grew hot with embarrassment and the undesired wave of irritation came close to a boil, thrashing against his control. The hurt of her rejection exceeded what the physical blows he had suffered through as a child. 

“Hey, is this guy bothering you?” His eyes snapped toward the same man whom he had dismissed only seconds ago.

Turning attention back to Nyota, he saw her staring at him with wide eyes. Then, as if burned, she looked away, her face a mixture of disbelief and shame.

_Had he shamed her?_

“Look man, she’s not cool with it. Just back off.”

When Nyota still refused to speak to his defense, he decided that the most logical course of action was to depart the scene immediately before his irritation could override his already strained calm.

As he was, while his face remained neutral, he could no longer keep a bit of his temper from his speech. “I am beginning to sense that my presence is undesired at this point and any of my advice unsolicited. It would be best if we go home separately so that I won’t unjustly stifle your merriment.”

He turned away but halted after the fourth step, and, with a deep breath, asked over his shoulder in a gentler voice: “Can I trust that you would be safe?”

From periphery vision, he saw her nod slowly and took it as his cue to leave.

Contrary to the way he had to squeeze himself through the crowd just to get to her, the people parted before him in his exit. When he saw no one occupying their table, he decided to leave the establishment in silence rather than risk spoiling his friends’ evening agenda. Spock mentally calculated arriving home in approximately 25 minutes, after which he would head straight for his meditation mat and—

“Spock, wait!”

Her voice stopped him on his tracks; then with controlled calmness, he turned around. Not too far behind the lieutenant was rushing past the crowds to reach him.

“ _Don’t leave_ ,” she whispered in breathless panic, once she slowed to a stop before him.

“I’m sorry,” she choked, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”

Her tears caused him to flinch inwardly.

“Nyota, we are both emotionally compromised and I am uncertain how much control you have over your faculty given the alcohol you have consumed. It would be unwise to communicate until we’ve both regained composure.”

“I know,” she replied, “but I—I need to tell you something. _Everything_. I don’t want our night to end like this. Can we talk?”

His hesitation must have been apparent in his expression as she took his hand and held on to it. _“Please.”_

Spock looked at her. Her brows were creased with stubbornness, and her eyes glassy and vulnerable.

But she did not look away.

“At a more conducive space, certainly,” he said.

Nyota bobbed her head. “Okay. Let’s—let’s talk outside.”

Spock followed her to the main doors. They made their exit a few steps apart and walked past the loitering crowd of people out to take in some air or a smoke. Nyota rounded the corner of the club and halted at a narrow alley connected to the back door.

The lighting, Spock thought, was not ideal for an encounter like theirs, but the light sourced from a single bulb above the door’s archway would have to suffice.

Nyota took a few deep breaths as if to rally her courage together and kept her eyes trained on her heels.

The air between them felt awkward, weighed by truths yet to be revealed.

When still she didn't speak, Spock made up his mind to commence. With a low but clear voice, he articulated his emotions, beginning with guilt. “I deeply apologize for imposing my mind upon you, Nyota. I acknowledge that it caused you discomfort, and as such your anger is fully justified as is your disappointment.

“No, the disappointment and anger you sensed wasn’t aimed at you, Spock,” came her quiet voice. Her eyes still refused to meet his.

“It was at _myself_.” She chewed on her lip before proceeding.

“I’ve been on my toes since we got back together. I know you’ve noticed, and I know you’ve wondered. It’s because I’ve been disappointed with myself and _angry_ and _frustrated_.” The woman took a sharp breath. “And I threw it at you because it was just too much . . . I’m sorry, that was so unfair to you.”

“Nyota, I . . . do not understand.”

This time, she looked straight at him, hiding none of her emotions from him. “There’s a lot to explain. Let me . . . let me start from the beginning. Remember that one time towards the end of my junior year when I saw you at that bar close to campus? That was the last day of the semester, and you were with Captain Pike and a few other members of the faculty.”

The events she painted coincided with a similar memory he had. “The Bourbon Lounge. Stardate 2257.178 . Indeed, I recall that evening’s program with clarity. You entered the establishment at around 21:30 along with your peers and Cadet Mark A. Bradley from command track.”

“Right,” Nyota confirmed. “Bradley and I were dating at that time. But I remember seeing you standing by the bar talking with Captain Pike and I couldn’t help but look—the way you stood out from the crowd by being yourself with your bangs and your posture and your hands clasped behind you while you talked about the intricacies of warp theories in a room full of people out to get wasted . . . ”  

She paused as if overwhelmed by the events she had recounted. “And I remember because that was the night when it really _slammed_ into me that I was in love with you, Spock. That I wanted you and that there was just no turning back anymore. Not for me.”

“It sounds stupid,” she let out a hollow laugh, “but I wanted to come here with you tonight because I thought if I take us back to that similar setting of loud party music and the low lights and people . . . maybe I’ll figure out if I still feel for you what I did years ago.”

His posture does not flinch and his face remained unexpressive of the emotions she had just unleashed within him. He stood still, heart pounding in furious anticipation of her verdict.

“And tonight, just watching you . . . it took my breath away knowing that I _am_ _still_ in love with you. I _still_ want you. And that _scares_ me.”

Spock soaked in her words. In his mind, the pieces of the puzzle that had long plagued him began falling slowly into place.

Before him, a small expression of relief spread across her face and she leaned against the wall, allowing her confession to cleanse her. When she spoke after drafting a long breath, he detected the inflections of the spirit and confidence long absent.

“When we got back home after the Narada incident, when we mutually decided to break up, I really thought you had chosen your duty to Vulcan. And that it was over for us. You loss was so overwhelming, and as hard as it was, I understood why we had to let each other go. The grief was still too raw and your _father_ , the Vulcan High Council needed every Vulcan’s support, maybe just as _you_ needed them too—to grieve and heal together.

“I was ready to balm the hurt by focusing on my career that it floored me when you reported to the bridge, stating your intention to resume your post. I was practically delirious with happiness,” she said with a weak smile. “But I wasn’t naïve. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy—that you still had doubts, especially as the rebuilding projects began and encountered hurdles along the way. I knew it frustrated you and I understood. It would’ve torn _me_ apart too, were I in your place.

“And yet you stayed on, even agreeing to embark on the five-year mission.” Her brows knotted in an expression of difficulty and she began fidgeting with her hands. He heard the break in her breathing’s rhythm and the miniscule crack in her voice.

“Six months after we left earth, I thought that maybe it was _okay_ to hope that you’ve resolved your internal conflict. A year later, you gave me this necklace.” Fingers softly touched the stone above her chest. “It belonged to your mother, and I thought—I was convinced that you weren’t going anywhere anymore . . . up until you received that message about the Ambassador failing health.

After that, it felt as if I was losing you slowly to something I couldn’t fight—” She took in a sharp breath and her face contorted in pain and anger just as tear slid down her cheek. “—That I had _no right_ to fight—and it was even more _devastating_ than the first time I had to let you go, knowing you love me and I love you; yet there is constantly this . . . this _thing_ hanging over our heads. Should you leave, I—”

The anger died in her throat and she took a few seconds to level her emotions, dabbing the tears from her eyes with the tip of her fingers. Spock watched, respectful of her silence, and waited till she could resume.

“ _Spock_ ,” she called softly, blinking red stained eyes open to meet his patient gaze. “You’ve chosen again to stay now, and _I love you,_ but this time I dread, thinking: _what if_ one day there’ll be another trigger that would make you feel duty-bound to leave again? When will it be? How much longer do we have _this_ time?

“I’ve been so frustrated because I told myself at the start of it all that I _won’t_ be the girlfriend who’d ask you to choose. You’ve been through so much, and you don’t deserve that kind of pressure. I’ve been feeling so ashamed with myself for even thinking about it . . . because it seems so selfish and unloving—and god the _guilt_ —”

The woman bit her lip and shot him a steely gaze. “I don't want to push you to a corner, but I _need_ to know, Spock. Is there still any part of you—no matter how small it is—that compels you to assist full time in the resettlement efforts on New Vulcan?”

He watched her watching him, his mind churning through her words. He knew his answer to her question. But in light of what she had shared with him, the way she had laid her heart out for him to see, vulnerable and hurt as it was . . . to opt for a typical Vulcan answer that was brief and concise felt inadequate and an injustice to her suffering.

“Nyota, I apologize,” he said with a slowness that evidenced his inexperience with such kinds of dialogue. “It appears that I have been severely negligent towards your feelings. It was never my intention to cause you such grievance. I now see that I am wrong in considering my effort to engage with you socially during Jim’s party sufficient to relay my sentiment. Nyota, I will _always_ desire to assist with the resettlement efforts on New Vulcan. But I am no longer compelled to resign my commission at Star Fleet to do so.”

He gave her three seconds to consider his words before resuming his explanation—a narrative he knew Nyota needed to hear in order to move forward.

“I confess I had been . . . uncertain. As you know, upon disembarking on Yorktown I was promptly approached by two Vulcan representatives who had informed me of the Ambassador’s passing. A new wave of guilt assailed me such that it was not simply my duty to Vulcan to consider but also my duty to become worthy and to . . . _live up_ to the Ambassador’s legacy. In hindsight, I erroneously deducted that the most optimal route was to forfeit our relationship as well as my friendship with the crew, resign from my post, and take over the Ambassador’s remaining projects for New Vulcan.”

“And then we were ordered on that rescue mission,” she muttered, piecing her own puzzle together.

He raised his brows in accordance. “Affirmative.”

“What changed your mind?”

“A holograph belonging to the Ambassador, that of the crew—our _friends_ —from his past and possibly in our future. I discovered it upon our return from Altamid. Nyota, he carried it with him and counted it as one of his most valuable possession. The sheer _sentiment_ behind it struck me deeply and led me to fully understand how important the Enterprise and Star Fleet was to him.

“In truth, it is **I** who also _need_ the Enterprise, Nyota—every person in it, and the very experience of our exploration mission. Beyond the whims of desire, there is an element of necessity for me that I had failed to identify before. I erred to disregard the Ambassador’s lengthy history before he even embarked on a diplomatic career. I had overlooked how it was precisely his time aboard the ship that largely shaped him. Therefore should it be my aim to be half the person that he was, it is only . . . _necessary_ that I stay.”  

“Then—” He read through her frown.

“Nyota, I have only answered your question in half. You asked me what changed my mind. Naturally, **you** also have a significant impact in my decision.”

Her lips parted softly at the confession. As Vulcan, he regarded it as an obvious truth that need not be explained but not so for humans—a difference he still at times neglected to consider.

“During our separation, you were frequent in my mind—exacerbated even more when the Enterprise crashed at Altamid and I had no way of knowing your state and whereabouts. When faced with the possibility of death given the extent of the injury I had sustained, my thoughts became filled with you—my _yearning_ for you, the frantic worry for your safety and the deepest regret that I would die without reconciling with you.

“Such siege of emotions was so strong that it was beyond my capability to suppress. I could not _not_ feel it. In the face of death, I realized how, more than desiring to be with you, I have come to need you as well.” His eyes held hers with all the tenderness he could express. “And I believe it would be—to make use of the common vernacular—absolutely _stupid_ to deliberately part from someone so vital to me.”

He considered crossing the space in between them but considered waiting for her response to know if she would be receptive. The small pool of tears that watered her eyes caught him by surprise, as did the small smile that bloomed on her lips.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“I will not leave you, Nyota. Or if I should, I do not perceive it to be voluntary, I assure you.” He wondered about her silence. “Does this satisfy you or would you require further defense of my certainty?”

Her smile grew and he felt his heart lurch at the melting affection and amusement in her eyes. “You know what, Spock, why don’t you kiss me better.”

Her words, Spock thought in the briefest seconds before he acted, was strongly reminiscent of what Doctor McCoy had voiced.

In a motion that was commanded more by limbs than mind, he took two precise steps forward and descended his lips onto hers. When Nyota responded by sliding her tongue into his mouth, every harbored doubt as to the adequacy of this form of reconciliation promptly dissolved in the sudden burn of desire.

The essence of her scent, her taste was to him like water to thirst and air to oxygen-starved lungs. He framed the sides of her face with his hands while her body pushed against him in a desperate reach for contact. The intimacy of their joined mouths smoldered as much as it healed, and when Nyota’s hands crawled up from his chest up to where her fingers were able to rake through his hair, Spock felt his mental control over the urges of his sex slipping.

“Nyota,” he rasped, “This manner of intimate engagement is not appropriate in this setting.”

The lieutenant arched a brow, and he realized her meaning. Their position behind a venue that existed for such encounters only made his call for decorum ironic.

Her fingers brushed against the sensitive spot by the nape of his neck and it caused his short hairs to rise on its ends, electrocuted.

“I can’t believe we just made out at the back alley of a club,” Nyota gushed.

“I am confused as to how this would be considered romantic given the proximity of the garbage bins.”

“Well, minus the bins, I like it. It’s kind of . . . sexy. Actually, I’ve wanted to do this all night. Or—forget the night—I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you at the Bourbon Lounge. You looked delicious that night.”

Spock stared, taken aback by her candor.

“What are you thinking?”  
  
“Something that Doctor McCoy advised. When I vaguely confided to him about your unusual behavior and my predicament, he prescribed we ‘kiss and make up’. I had scoffed at the idea though I am now beginning to understand the wisdom of his counsel.”

Nyota chuckled and resting her forehead on his chest, said: “If all of our fights ended like this, we would have confronted each other much earlier.”

“Like you, I was . . . _afraid . . ._ that your silence and your coolness towards me was indicative of your disinterest. Therefore, I chose not to confront you out of fear that your answer would conform with my conjecture,” Spock confessed.

The lieutenant processed his words and in a contemplative voice. “It’s almost funny how we’ve both been really afraid of losing each other . . . how it led to this.” And intertwining their hands together, she added: “It kind of shows how much we mean to each other, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

Spock breathed deeply, allowing the evening air to fill his lungs and clear the worries that had been plagued him over the weeks along with the unpleasantness of the evening’s events.

He squeezed her hand. “Nyota, as I now perceive  _kissing_ to be pleasantly effective in reconciling conflicts, might I propose a lengthier repetition before we retire for the evening?”

Her wide grin exhibited delight. “I think I ought to warn you that I fully intend to make out with you for no less than three minutes, Spock.”

With barest of smiles curved on his lips, Spock bent forward.

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, this piece began as pure mindless fluff. No conflict and all shameless flirting in the club for this adorable pairing. But halfway through, the story demanded to evolve to something more complicated and to pick up on the issues mentioned in the latest Beyond movie and build off on it. 
> 
> My transition from "4000 words sappy fic" to "10,000 words sappy with depth" was fairly terrible that I was in a tearing-hair-off-scalp phase for the past few weeks just trying to manage the mess this piece had become. And, yes, I just said that hoping it will be enough to solicit some comments and constructive criticism. 
> 
> Till the next fic!


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